


an international reputation (for drama)

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, Gen, Inspired By Tumblr, Sherlock is a Brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21778018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Sherlock is locked out of 221B
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528859
Comments: 18
Kudos: 73





	an international reputation (for drama)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](https://londonlock.tumblr.com/post/189625753411/astudyintea-londonlock-londonlock-i-just) tumblr post by [londonlock](https://londonlock.tumblr.com/)

After two days spent chasing leads on a case, including a missing alpaca and the murder of an old harpist, Sherlock finally dragged himself home around 2 am. It was raining - _pouring -_ and his heavy wool coat was soaked through, hanging from his tall frame with damp weight. Curls plastered to his head, he bent against the wind and pushed his way to Baker Street.

Reaching the door, he dug for keys and came up empty. Dimly, he remembered jumping a barrier and hearing something metal hit the ground, too caught up in the chase to pause.

Keys. 

Almost five years living on Baker Street, never locking the door. Then John goes away, and the door is locked. Mrs. Hudson would be asleep - with the cold and the damp, her hip must have been aching. He wouldn’t wake her. Not at 2 am.

Dropping down, he parked himself on the step, the old black door firm against his back. He plunged his cold, shivering hands into the pockets of his wet Belstaff and glared out at the rain, brows drawn down in a dark scowl.

As the chill sank into his skin, down to the bones, he began to shake, teeth chattering together like gunshots. Sherlock huddled into himself, locking long arms around his knees and bringing them tight against his chest.

This was it. He was going to die here. Defeated by the insufferable rainy weather of London. Here, he would expire. John would come home to his bare-bones and dead eyes, and then he would feel bad for going away, leaving Sherlock here to perish in the rain.

Stupid John. Why did he need to go away at all? Sherlock was infinitely more interesting than a conference in Cardiff. 

Glowering, he dug into his pocket. Retrieving his phone with cold-numbed fingers, he thumbed to John’s contact and typed out a message. It took several tries as his wet fingers failed to register on the touch screen. He was persistent, finally succeeding.

**I’ve locked myself out of the flat. SH**

Sending the text, he rubbed at his arms and tried to stop his teeth from clicking together. They refused, and he snarled. 

Why was life so unfair? He was a _good man. He_ didn’t deserve this.

He wrestled the phone out again.

**You shouldn’t be in Cardiff. SH**

**You should be here, letting me into our flat. SH**

No answer. Well, it was two in the morning. 

Such a fact only annoyed him further. Why should 2 am be any different than 2 pm? Why did John need to sleep, anyway? He always seemed to be asleep when Sherlock wanted him to be awake. 

**Are you sick? You are always sleeping. SH**

**John, you sleep almost 9 hours a day. Seems excessive. SH**

**Seriously John, stop sleeping. I am cold. SH**

Dimly, he did realize there wasn’t much John could do even if he answered, being almost 3 hours away and as useless as usual. Still, John was likely curled up warm in a fluffy bed, while he, Sherlock Holmes, was sat on the street, shivering and wet.

**I have an international reputation, John. Do you? No, John. We both know you do not. Well, I have one, and I am cold. SH**

**This isn’t very fair, John. You sleep, and I shiver. SH**

Hands slipping on the screen, he almost dropped the phone. Scowling, he hammered at the keyboard.

**I could die out here, John. SH**

**Exposure is a genuine concern, John. SH**

**John, you’re a doctor. You know I could die here. SH**

Thoroughly annoyed, Sherlock pushed the phone and his hand into his pockets again. As he did, his knuckles brushed against something cold and soft. Releasing the phone, he gripped the item and pulled it out. 

His leather case. 

Oh. Right. 

Grabbing his phone again, he typed a quick message.

**Never mind, I can pick the lock. I’ll survive. SH**

Pausing, he wiped rainwater from his face, then added:

**No thanks to you, John. SH**

Picking the lock, Sherlock dropped his soaking coat onto the floor and mounted the steps. Dripping onto the rug, he moved to toss the phone onto the sofa, but it went off in his hand with a loud buzz. Raising the mobile, he squinted at the screen, water running into his eyes from his sodden hair. It was a text from John.

**there's a spare key under the mat, you wanker**


End file.
